Styx & Stones, page 2
part #1 of Tales of the El Defensor Series
The dull thud behind him snatched away any further feelings of self-pity, replacing his thoughts with a sense of sudden danger. He rose quickly, turning sword in hand, a faint violet arc tracing the blade’s path through the air, as the runes blazed brighter.
Dark magic was loose in the room.
Narrowed eyes scanned the room, noticing the slight vibration from one of the ruined doors, the flakes of burning tapestry falling to the floor disturbed by something unseen in passing. Then he saw a pooled area of shadow ripple as if it were liquid, before something darted across the wall, heading ever closer, gravity clearly not impeding its path.
A squealing sound like long fingernails scrapped down slate removed any possibility this was just imagination, causing Kerian to set his stance, turning to present his side towards the threat, and minimising his exposed surface, his sword low before him.
“Who’s there?” he demanded, in a voice that sounded more confident than he felt inside. A teasing laugh echoed around him as the shadow moved again, sliding into the darkness of the dais steps. Kerian’s free hand reached slowly towards a dagger sheathed at his other hip, intent on complementing his sword, and adopting the dual weapon style he favoured, but a loud hissing snap from the fire froze him in mid motion. He turned towards the sound, marking the edge of the dais with his peripheral vision as he tried to see what had caused the sharp noise. The charred skull of his queen slowly swung up from her chest, regarding him with ghostly green lights flickering in her fire-cleansed sockets.
He gasped in horror, clasping his sword tighter as his terror fought to freeze him in place. How could she still be alive? No one could survive the heat of these flames, not even someone as powerful as his queen! His heart raced, his mind screamed at him to run, but all the knight could do was stare disbelieving, frozen in place like cornered prey beneath a predator’s talons.
A cracking jerk freed one hand from the glowing chains. Kerian followed the movement to observe several brittle pieces of bone crumbling to the floor. Her arm rose to point towards him, the movement hypnotic almost snake-like.
“You,” the skull hissed impossibly, the words emphasised with a snapping jerk forwards of the cadaver it issued from. “We were told to look for you.”
Kerian was not sure which was worse, the grinning skinless smile of the parody that snapped and cracked before him, or the voice, clearly not that of his queen, but something impossibly darker in nature and as forbidding as a long forgotten tomb.
“What has happened here?” Kerian almost stammered the question, his throat having become uncomfortably dry. “And what manner of creature are you?” He took a cautious step backwards towards the edge of the dais.
Further snapping sounds issued as the burning corpse tried to get to its feet, straining against the chain until a brittle snap cut through the air, jerking the creature away from the throne as resistance yielded. It took several crunching unsteady steps towards the knight. The back of the throne crashing to the floor, the loose chain lying in coils around twig like blackened metatarsals.
“Where is the rest of the queen’s army? The knight continued, slowly edging to the left, the better bring his sword to bear on the smoking figure. Kerian felt the gorge rise in his throat as something wet and smoking slithered from his queen’s abdomen and slopped to the marble below. He did not know if his sword would be effective against this creature but he was not prepared to let it attack him without raising some sort of defence. “And what has happened to my queen?”
“Don’t take me as a fool Denaris!” The corpse drooled, something dark and congealing dribbled from its jaw. “Your queen stands before you… At least, what remains of her!” It gestured at the body it occupied.
“It seems her tyranny caught up with her at the end, but don’t worry, she planned ahead for you. She hated that you questioned her ways and turned traitor… that is why she cursed you and then released you to run away. Knowing full well that as the curse affected you and you started to age you would come back begging for the spell to be lifted.” The skeleton took another step closer, fire-brittle joints snapping and popping at each jerking movement. Kerian could not help but back away in revulsion from the travesty before him.
“What’s the matter?” the creature taunted. “Don’t you want her anymore?” It lifted its arms wide as if to accept the knight in a lover’s embrace even as it threw back the head of the skull and issued another sinister laugh.
“Then my queen is truly dead.” Kerian muttered to himself, the numbing realisation that turned his hopes to dust and his fears to vivid reality.
“Yes. Such a shame,” the creature shambled forwards again. “Especially as now she is dead she can no longer lift her enchantment. It would appear you are doomed to die before your time… A young man trapped in an old man’s body. How old are you now? Your late forties by my estimate, your time is running out fast!”
Kerian stepped back again, he knew in actuality he had just turned thirty-two years of age, but the curse was aging him rapidly. He now looked about forty-six. He nearly slipped as his boot came down on the edge of the raised dais making his footing unsteady. He looked down to check himself from falling then lifted his head up to find himself mere inches from the grinning caricature before him.
The stench of roasted flesh assailed his nostrils as the skull head swayed from side to side, the eerie green light in the sockets further emphasising the horror before him. The skull lunged forward, biting the air, causing Kerian to recoil or risk injury from the smoking incisors.
He slipped down to the floor below and brought his sword up, attempting to stall the creature’s advance.
“What in the name of mercy are you?”
“I am one of three,” the creature hissed in reply. “I told you your queen planned ahead. You took too long to return, and she was losing patience. We have been summoned to hunt you down, to hound you and make you return.”
“And if I refuse?” Kerian enquired.
“We kill you!” hissed the cold detached response.
“But she is already dead.” He gestured towards the creature, “you can’t hound me back into her arms.”
The skull paused navigating the step down to look up into Kerian’s eyes and hesitated, cocking the smoking head to one side as if considering something it had previously been unaware. Then slowly it began to laugh anew, making it perfectly clear the creature had already considered this and already knew the outcome, despite the pretence otherwise.
“Once we are summoned we always follow our instructions to the letter.” It continued, “We cannot return to our home otherwise, and must remain on this plane of existence until we fade.” It stroked a smoke stained bony chin with a charcoal stick of finger. “So if you are back already… all we have left to do is kill you.”
The skull jerked suddenly and then screamed, the eye sockets flaring brighter than before, and then the nightmare Kerian beheld broke into a shambling lunge towards him. Kerian reacted instinctively, military training trying to push down the feelings of horror he felt. He dropped to one knee swinging his blade in a sweeping arc of destruction. There was a rush of heat, an overpowering smell of burning flesh and then the corpse hit the blood smeared marble floor, brittle bones shattering in contact with the unyielding surface. Charred bone fragments skittered and slid across the marble, falling to rest on either side of the knight as he completed his swing, slashing his sword down to protect his right flank as his left hand angled his dagger to protect his other side.
Kerian gasped releasing a breath he had not even realised he was holding. What was that creature? He looked down at the ruined remains around him and tried to suppress a shudder, nervously double-checking to ensure there was no physical signs of life in the long dead bone fragments around him. His sword continued to blaze violet indicating the threat was not yet gone, but the ruined corpse seemed to indicate otherwise.
Gathering courage, he returned to his feet, approaching the largest fragment of the corpse and gingerly prodded it with the tip of his sword. The charred skull appeared to mock his actions with its unanimated broken smile. Kerian realised this was all that remained of his past life. She had beaten him, her curse now unbreakable. He had months to live rather than years. In a time where it was rare for people to live past forty the thought of aging so fast was terrifying. With a snarl, he brought his sword down on the skull, disintegrating its last vestige of humanity into a thousand spinning shards of frustration and anger.
“I swear I will beat you, my queen,” He spat at the shattered remains. “You may believe you have beaten me, doomed me to an early grave, but I won’t accept this! I will find a remedy! I will find a way to beat you, even if I have to descend to the deepest levels of the underworld and tear the cure from your blackest of hearts!” He turned striding grimly towards the throne room doors, determined to put as much space between himself and the appalling horrors of this castle before nightfall. There was nothing here for him now, he needed to find somewhere quiet to sit and think, to somehow formulate a new plan and maybe get a stiff drink.
A low hissing sound stopped him in mid-stride.
He turned back towards the sound, watching in horror as a sickly green mist began to gather from the remains of the body on the floor. Wisps slid from exposed marrow and roasted flesh, others slipping from the ruined skull, gathering into a pale spectral shape that hovered clear of the floor below it. As the mist continued to collect, features became more apparent, horns sprouting from an oval head; long arms with emaciated almost skeletal fingers adorned with long piercing claws, wings sprouting from a twisted spine. However, it was the eyes that drew Kerian’s complete attention, the same piercing eyes that had once gazed from his queen’s dead skull.
“So the hunt begins,” the creature laughed. “Run little man, run!”
Part One: - Crossed Paths
“Always show courtesy when meeting fellow
wayfarers upon the road.
For you never know when your paths
may cross again.”
Old Traveller’s Proverb
Chapter One
There is nothing more exasperating than a locked door when you want to go shopping. Luckily, for Ashe Wolfsdale, he rarely let such trivial obstacles get between him and a good bargain, especially when he had no intentions of paying for it. He examined the stubborn keyhole before him with a critical eye and quickly rose to the challenge, the final rusty tumbler just about to click into place when he heard horse’s hooves clacking on the cobblestones behind him.
With a mere whisper of sound, the little figure dived behind a rotting water barrel and skilfully obscured himself within the shadowy recess it cast. From his damp hiding place he was able to scan the street and see the approaching rider more clearly; he also noticed that in his haste to avoid detection he had left his lock pick jutting prominently from the door and silently bit back a curse, grinding his teeth in frustration as the rider drew closer.
A rundown tavern, situated at the end of the road, filtered shuttered light weakly across the way to illuminate an impressive ivory warhorse, possibly one of the biggest horses Ashe had ever seen. Muscles rippled at each step and heavily shod metal shoes sparked as they struck the cobblestones. The horse came to a halt and its rider slid from the saddle. He stood beside the stallion, straightening his long black cloak, pulling the hood tighter around his face and tucking in strands of white hair before turning to examine the shadowed storefronts about him.
Ashe forgot his predicament as curiosity tugged at him. This was interesting, who was this man, riding about so late at night, clearly not wanting anyone to see his face? Did he not know that hiding in shadows was something only shady low down individuals considered?
“Saybier!” the rider tugged at the reins to get his horse’s wandering attention. “I need you to wait here and be ready for a fast get away. This place has the reputation for being rough, and things may turn hostile quite quickly.” He stroked Saybier’s snout and offered over an apple that the horse sniffed once before covering with its huge teeth and lips. A low crunching sound filled the air as the rider turned towards the entrance of the tavern, his cloak a swirl of shadows. Then he paused, as if in afterthought, turning once more to scan the darker shadows of the street. Ashe swore he could feel the intensity of the hooded gaze and struggled to squeeze himself further into his darkened corner.
“Oh, by the way,” the rider motioned to his mount. “Keep your eyes on the little man hiding in the shadows by that doorway. If he tries to take anything from my saddlebags you have my permission to bite him.” He turned with a chuckle and walked purposefully towards the tavern entrance, pausing to tease open the door and weigh the mood of the crowd before committing himself to action, pushing through the slatted bar doors and letting them swing shut behind him.
The diminutive thief and the warhorse eyed each other suspiciously with only an escaped cloud of bar smoke as company, its swirls eddying to nothing in the cool evening air. Ashe could not understand how he had been spotted so easily. He stood and brushed himself down, thinking furiously. It had to be the lock pick! He cursed his carelessness, tugging his large floppy hat back into shape before reaching up to check his lucky yellow griffon feather (very rare, one of a kind and a real bargain!) remained secure at the brim. Happy appearances were satisfactory his thoughts returned to the unkind jab sent his way.
What did that man mean by calling him little? At just over four feet high and growing an average of one thumb thickness a year he was practically full-grown! He moved from the water barrel and turned to gaze at the lock and door handle level with his chin. Now where was he? The shop lock beckoned, but should he now consider the saddlebags of this latest arrival?
He turned back towards the horse, calculating eyes flickering across the secured bundles, noticing several interesting bulges. It would not hurt to have a little look. Obviously, he would put everything not of value back in place after he finished looking!
Ashe started to step across the road. Sensing the movement, the stallion turned to regard Ashe’s slight figure with a malevolent stare, its albino eyes daring him to approach. Ashe paused in mid-step suddenly indecisive as a hoof sparked against the cobbles and a thoroughly ragged apple core covered in slobber flew through the air to land at his feet.
He swiftly reconsidered the situation, suddenly remembering the urgent appointment he had with a certain locked door. He should at least retrieve his lock pick, after all what self-respecting thief left a job half done? Besides the teeth in that mouth were big! Moreover, sharp… Definitely sharp! He tugged the front of his tunic, readjusted his belt and coughed to show he had a pressing engagement. Then he smiled, tipped his hat in apology and edged back into the shadows.
The Serving Wench was a rough establishment, untidy, filled with smoke and definitely a magnet for the undesirable element of town. Battered tables were scattered as haphazardly as the wine-soaked straw littering the floor. Occupants huddled together in secret conversations and cryptic conspiracies, swords and daggers openly displayed, close to hand for ease of use. The open fire spewed more fumes into the room than up the crumbling stone chimney, making the atmosphere thick, heavy and irritating to the eyes and throat. Tallow candles dotted unevenly around, cast just enough light to allow murky shadows room to stretch into far too many areas of the tavern for an honest man to feel comfortable. Although Kerian could have argued that from the looks of the customers, there were not many honest men frequenting the Serving Wench this night.
He stood just inside the entrance to the tavern, his senses calculating threats, watching for hands sliding towards blades, hats and cloaks being pulled up or tugged down to hide features or make it easier for patrons to check him out surreptitiously from under the brows of their ragged moth eaten hats. There was also an overpowering smell in the air, which made Kerian realise how glad he was he had already eaten. He feigned indifference towards the attention he was getting and turned his focus to the approach of a short, balding man, whose apron appeared covered with bloodstains and the slimy remains of bird excrement.
“A table and a drink, if you please,” Kerian opened, stealing the opportunity for the patron to launch into monotone small talk.
Kerian flipped a silver crown towards the filthy steward. It glinted twice, catching the faint candlelight, before it was snatched mid-flight by the barman’s grubby, calloused hand. Within seconds it was tucked away, its existence a fleeting memory for those who had glimpsed its short flight from across the room. He grunted in response to payment and turned into the room his sweaty girth weaving a meandering path between tables to a vacant one tucked away in a dark recess, far beyond the warmth of the fireplace.
The barman quickly used his stained apron to clear the table, only to smear something indescribable across the worn and chipped surface. Shrugging, he turned and gestured to the only chair before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a sorry looking stub of candle he lit and stuck unceremoniously in the table’s centre.
“Your ale will be brought to you soon” he grinned, showing a set of badly decayed teeth before winking and heading off back across the room, leaving Kerian alone to consider how the barman had decided it was an ale he wanted?
Kerian slowly took his seat, positioning his back to the wall so he could take in his surroundings. A further survey showed that a great many customers of the Serving Wench favoured the back-to-the-wall seating plan. He pushed his cloak back over his left shoulder exposing the studded leather armour below, allowing himself freedom to reach for his sword without being tangled. Then slowly, so as not to arouse any reaction from the people near him, he gently freed his blade from the scabbard by the slightest millimetre, ensuring it would not snag if he required its swift use. It was strange how his military training had become instinct, carried out in small ways like this almost, without thought.
